John and I had planned a low-key anniversary getaway, confident my father would be fine in the home he’d once shared with my late mother.

We asked John’s retired parents, Bob and Janet, to stay with him, and they happily accepted.

But once they arrived, they acted like the house was their own—complaining about the meals, making fun of the décor, and implying my father should be moved to a care home.

My father remained courteous on the outside, but inwardly, he decided they were in for a lesson.

When the days passed, Bob and Janet grew bolder.

They measured hallways, talked about curtain colors, and dreamed up a media room where my father’s study stood.

Believing he’d given in, they helped pack his belongings, smug and certain they’d won.

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